


Friday the Thirteenth

by Lariope



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-27
Updated: 2009-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lariope/pseuds/Lariope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco teaches Harry the true meaning of Friday the Thirteenth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday the Thirteenth

Friday nights had been depressing since Ron and Hermione had got married. It used to be that the three of them might meet at the Three Broomsticks, or the Tooth and Nail, if they were feeling dangerous, but these days, Harry’s two best friends were shoulder deep in Home Improvement Charms, and their idea of an exciting Friday night was trying Hermione’s new spell to strip magical paint from the walls.

It had been a long week. Not an exciting one; Harry had soon discovered after joining the Auror Department that most days simply involved a frightening amount of paperwork and very little else, but despite the lack of dueling and adventure, he was weary and wishing for a little release.

As he sat down to his meal of fried cheese sandwich and soup, which suddenly seemed lifeless and depressing, a green flare shot from the fireplace.

“Dammit,” Harry said. “Why must people Floo during dinner?”

He left the table and knelt at the fireplace, fully expecting to have to make some excuse about being allergic to carpentry or some such. But to Harry’s surprise, Draco Malfoy’s green and pointy face appeared in the fireplace, looking quite like some sort of deranged elf.

If it were possible, Harry’s heart sank even further. Malfoy was his partner in the Aurory, and his appearance in Harry’s fireplace could only mean that he was needed back at the office.

“What have you lost or mutilated now?” Harry asked.

“And good evening to you, too,” Malfoy answered cheerfully. “I wonder if you know what day this is.”

“It’s Friday,” Harry snapped back. “And that means that whatever you need had better be damned important, because--”

“It’s Friday the Thirteenth, Potter,” Malfoy said. “Do you have plans?”

“Er… No. I mean… why? Is it some sort of wizard holiday or something?”

“You don’t know what Friday the Thirteenth is?” Draco asked, sounding horrified, as if Harry had just mentioned that he’d never heard of Christmas.

“Of course I know what Friday the Thirteenth is,” Harry said peevishly. “It’s a bad luck day. It’s when you have to be careful not to walk under ladders or…”

Somehow, despite the fact that he was naught but a head made of flames, Malfoy seemed to sit back and look indulgently at Harry as if to say, “Go on, go on. Tell me your ridiculous Muggle ideas and I shall scoff and ridicule them publicly.”

“…or see black cats or… or maybe that’s Halloween. Anyway, it’s bad luck.”

“Ladders? Cats? Bad Luck? Great Merlin, I will never cease to be amazed at the perversions Muggles bring to our holidays. It’s as bad as Halloween.”

“What’s wrong with Halloween?”

“Look, Potter, just shut your mouth now and save yourself the embarrassment. Friday the Thirteenth is not a bad luck day. It’s a rare day! It’s a celebration of rarity!” he exclaimed, as if he were proclaiming great good news to the middle class. “It’s a day to do things that you’ve always wanted to do but never done!”

“Oh,” said Harry.

“Now, are you helping the Weasel with his _humble_ abode, or do you want to come round the pub for drinks?”

“Well… I…” Harry was a bit flummoxed. He would much rather be out celebrating rarity or whatever all than stripping paint out of Ron and Hermione’s flat, but Malfoy had never asked him to do anything social before, and although they had become… well, friendly wasn’t quite the word… but _civil_ at work, it was still very hard to believe that going out for drinks with Malfoy wouldn’t lead to some kind of pre-arranged public humiliation or arrest by his own department.

“Come on, Potter. Vince and Pansy are meeting me at The Goat and Compass, that new karaoke place outside Knockturn Alley. What’s the worst that could happen? You could make a fool of yourself singing _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love?_ Actually, I suppose you wouldn’t even need the song… but come anyway. Seize the day, or whatever that dreadful Muggle saying is.”

The notion of Vincent Crabbe singing karaoke was enough to tip the scales in favor of Malfoy, despite whatever nefarious plans he might have. “Yeah, all right. What time?”

“Brilliant! Come down around nine. Ta ta!”

Harry shook his head as he stood up from the fireplace. This was most likely a terrible idea. And now he had to find something to wear.

***

When he arrived at The Goat and Compass, he was instantly uncomfortable. This was a young place, a trendy place, exactly the kind of place that Harry never went. He never seemed to know what to do with his body when crammed among so many young wizards and witches. It was like all the wrong parts of him stuck out, and he never wore the right shirt.

For instance, tonight, he had chosen faded denims and a tee shirt that read, “Save a broomstick, ride a Quidditch Player,” thinking that it seemed casual, hip. But as he approached the bar, he saw that Malfoy was wearing black trousers and a shirt of some sort of gray, shiny material, open at the throat.

Malfoy looked him up and down critically and said, “Potter. So glad you could make it,” in a tone that seemed to indicate that he wasn’t.

“Yeah, look, whatever,” Harry said uncomfortably. “Erm… Ron and Hermione have had some kind of accident mixing Painting Spells with Stripping Spells, and I really should go. I just came down to let you know.”

Malfoy grimaced. “That sounds… too disgusting to contemplate. Which is absolutely why you should stay here. Besides, I’ve already bought you this drink.” He slid a green, citrus smelling concoction toward Harry.

“Oh, um. Thanks,” Harry said, trying to surreptitiously identify it by sniffing it. It smelled powerfully alcoholic.

“Charming, Potter. Do you sniff all your gifts, or just mine?” Malfoy said. And without waiting for answer, “Look, a lot of wizards don’t like to say what they’re trying to accomplish on Friday the Thirteenth, so don’t be a boor and ask around. Just be supportive.”

“Yeah, OK,” Harry said, and followed Malfoy back to the table, green drink in hand.

***

Harry spent the next two hours looking around the room and trying to decide what people’s goals were for the evening. Crabbe’s goal was clearly to sing karaoke, as he had three bracing Firewhiskys and promptly signed up to sing John the Witchhunter’s _Spellbound_. Pansy, so far as Harry could determine, was attempting to drink ten glasses of the green stuff in a row. At one point, she drank one all in one long swallow, Malfoy chanting, “Drink, drink, drink!” all the while. Pansy’s shirt had slipped off one shoulder, and she had a determined look in her eye. Harry looked away and thought bemusedly that Malfoy really was quite supportive of his friends.

Across the room, there were several witches whose goals seemed to include picking up stray Quidditch players, as well as several others like Pansy who were trying to commit feats of consumption, but Harry found most interesting the ones that could not immediately be identified. What was with the swarthy guy who just sat at the bar and watched the karaoke? Or the girl who waved her wand in tight little circles and then carefully inspected anything that came out? Or Draco Malfoy, for that matter, who didn’t seem to be doing anything at all unusual?

As the evening progressed, Harry drank more and more of the lovely green drinks. So tart, they were. So… citrusy, he thought happily. And Vincent Crabbe was actually a fine karaoke singer, with a deep, but soft, pleasant voice. He was on his sixth song, and the pub was beginning to empty out.

“So, what was it?” Harry asked, feeling that he had become friendly enough with Pansy during this rare evening to enquire as to her goal. “Was it the green drinks thing? They were quite nice; I’d have drunk ten of them myself.”

Draco snorted.

“Pardon?” Pansy said.

“He means your _goal_ ,” Malfoy said. “For Friday the Thirteenth. I told him it was rude to ask, but this is Potter we’re dealing with.”

“Ah,” said Pansy. “And you’re asking if my goal was to drink ten Avada Coladas?” She laughed chillingly.

 _Those drinks had been called Avada Coladas?_

“No, Potter. My goal was to prove to Malfoy here, once and for all, that you’re bent.”

“That I’m what?”

“Queer. Gay. Whatever the hell you’re calling it these days.”

“Oh,” Harry said, a purplish stain spreading over his skin, all the way down to his collarbones. See, he had been right the first time. Going out with Malfoy brought public humiliation.

Harry stood up shakily and turned toward the bar. This would be all over the paper tomorrow, and Hermione would say, “Whatever possessed you to go out with Malfoy, Harry? Didn’t you know something like this would happen? Honestly, it’s as if you want him to--”

“Don’t go,” Malfoy said, suddenly appearing behind him. “Look, Pansy’s drunk, a fact not unobservable to the naked eye. And she’s a bit of a bitch even when she isn’t. Ignore her.”

Harry paused in his efforts to retrieve his wallet from his pocket and blinked uncertainly a few times. “What… what was your goal tonight?”

“I’ll tell you after you’ve told me,” Malfoy said.

“No, I asked first,” Harry said.

“Oh, come now; you expect me to go first? Be realistic.”

Harry seemed to acquiesce. “I didn’t really have one. I just thought, well, do something you’ve never done before. And I have. I went out with you. I heard Vincent Crabbe sing _Voldemort Can’t Stop the Rock_ , which really makes my brain hurt, by the way. And I drank something called an Avada Colada. I’d say I seized the day.”

“Nope, doesn’t count.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because the point is to do something you’ve always _wanted_ to do. Everyone’s doing things they’ve never done before, every day. You take a new way to work because the Tube’s down, or you have a different sandwich than usual for lunch. This is a day to celebrate! A day for rarity! Now what have you always wanted to do?”

“What’s yours?” Harry said. “Tell me what yours is, so I’ll know what kind of thing to pick.”

Malfoy leaned back against the bar, and his face drifted into a half-hearted sneer. “Why, Potter, isn’t it obvious? I asked you out.”

***

Of course, Harry was still relatively certain that this was all a ploy designed to make a fool of him. But still, he couldn’t leave Malfoy just standing there at the bar, looking so pointy and vulnerable. That would be… well, that would be unchivalrous. Or something.

“I’m going to do mine now,” Harry said. “So brace yourself.” And then he leaned forward and kissed Malfoy.

It was perfectly horrible. Harry’s glasses immediately went askew, and their teeth clicked loudly and painfully. Malfoy’s mouth tasted like whiskey and it was too hard and too wet by far.

It was horribly perfect. Harry’s hands came up to cup Malfoy’s jaw, and Malfoy leaned into him and made the smallest noise into his mouth, and not a noise of shock and outrage, Harry’s overheated brain babbled to him, but a noise of pleasure, and Friday the Thirteenth was officially the greatest holiday ever invented.

***

Several weeks later, Harry was at Ron and Hermione’s trying to work up the courage to tell them that he was seeing Draco Malfoy.

“Harry, could you make yourself useful and bring me that stack of books please?” Hermione huffed from halfway up the wall, where she was Levitating. “I can’t Summon and Levitate at the same time; I’m only one person!”

“Oh, er, sorry. Yes,” Harry said, picking up the books and uncovering a CD with a very familiar face on it.

“Hermione!” he shouted. “What the bloody fuck is this?”

Ron laughed. “Don’t tease her about that, mate, if you know what’s good for you. Hermione’s very sensitive about her love for ickle Vinciekins.”

“You know about this?” Harry said.

“Of course I know about it,” Ron said, looking at Harry with vague concern, as if he might have recently sustained head injury. “Everyone knows about it. It’s been at the top of the Wizard Rock charts for weeks now.”

“Well, I… It’s just that I… I went out with Crabbe on Friday the Thirteenth, and I thought his goal was to sing karaoke… but if this is his CD…”

“What goal? And why the hell were you out with Vincent Crabbe?” Ron said.

“His goal for Friday the Thirteenth. The thing he wanted to do that he’d never done before.”

Ron looked at him so incredulously that the pieces began to fall into place.

“There’s no wizard tradition in which you do things you’ve always wanted to do on Friday the Thirteenth, is there?” Harry said quietly.

“No, Harry,” Hermione said. “If you’d paid attention in History of Magic, you’d know that Friday the Thirteenth is traditionally considered bad luck, due the fourth Goblin Rebellion, which began on Friday, April 13, 1408...”

But Harry just smiled.


End file.
